


Quiet Light

by prattery



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur finds out that there are consequences to being an arse, Emotional Constipation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merlin has had it, Merlin stands his ground, Officially, Pining Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Post Episode: s04e07 The Secret Sharer, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25899349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prattery/pseuds/prattery
Summary: Post-s04e7 AU where Arthur didn’t simply forget that, with Gaius venerated, they still have a traitor is still in their midst.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 374





	Quiet Light

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by About Today by The National. Title taken from--you've guessed it--another National song.

Merlin is polishing Arthur’s armour in the corner of his chambers. It would be nothing unusual, except for the bit where Merlin is doing it in total silence instead of filling the room with his inane chatter. Instead of telling Arthur whatever juicy gossip is currently making the rounds—things like who is shagging whom, what the servants think of Arthur’s new policies. Things Arthur feigned disinterest in, not that Merlin ever let it deter him.

Before, it was _Arthur_ who had trouble shutting Merlin up. This silence, by contrast, is rather unnerving.

Arthur clears his throat. Loudly.

Merlin studiously ignores him, pretending not to hear. He doesn’t bother looking up from his work, doesn’t say a word to acknowledge Arthur’s presence in the room. His whole, undivided attention is focussed on Arthur’s armour on his lap—his hands are moving deftly and deliberately, each movement careful and measured. Arthur can feel the disapproval rolling off of his servant in _waves._

Arthur frowns.

“A slow day in the rumour mills, is it, Merlin?” Arthur prods, a feeble attempt to coax _something_ out.

“Nothing you would deem worthy of interest, Sire,” Merlin replies, not bothering to look up.

Arthur stiffens. Merlin used to only tack on _sire_ in a manner that makes it clear just how much of an afterthought it is. He always managed to suffuse the address with casual insubordination, a mockery of what a honorific should be. It never sounded like this—as though he is addressing a random visiting noble instead of a friend.

He plops himself down gracelessly next to Merlin. “You never used to shut up about what is going on in this castle.”

“You should be pleased, then,” Merlin quips without missing a beat, “considering how much you used to complain about it.”

Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh. “Merlin,” he tries again, but Merlin doesn’t grace him with a response this time. “Is it because of what happened with Gaius?”

Merlin’s hand stills very briefly at that, perhaps involuntarily. Even when Merlin doesn’t look up, it’s enough to give away the fact that Arthur has hit the nail on the head.

“It is, isn’t it,” Arthur surmises. “You’re still upset.”

“Maybe,” Merlin challenges, finally meeting Arthur’s gaze, “Sire.”

“I’ve apologised,”

“So you have, Sire.” Merlin acknowledges. He doesn’t say _if you could call what you said to me an apology,_ but Arthur heard it anyway. He stands, gathering bits and pieces of the armour he was polishing. “I will be taking these to the armoury, Sire. Unless you require anything else from me?”

“No,” Arthur sighs, fully realising that he is running away, and that Arthur is letting him _._ Perhaps he needs time to brood, or whatever it is servants do after going on an ill-advised—yet successful—rescue mission. Perhaps he needed time to untangle his thoughts and recover from the ordeal. He did, very nearly, lost Gaius, after all. “I won’t be needing you tonight, Merlin. Go see if Gaius needs anything.”

Arthur is sure he didn’t imagine Merlin’s almost-smile.

* * *

Merlin’s sullen silent treatment continues throughout much of the fortnight, and embarrassingly for Arthur, it takes just as long for him to realise that things are perhaps more broken between him and Merlin than he initially thought. It’s only after he started to notice Gwaine shooting him dirty, judgemental looks when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking—not to mention the extra helping of aggression during sparring matches with Arthur—that Arthur realises that Merlin is still actively avoiding him.

To be fair, Arthur hasn’t been spending much time in Merlin’s company. He has a kingdom to run, after all, and his presence is always required somewhere. It doesn’t help that Merlin, the slimy bastard, also always has _something_ on, usually involving something about a potion delivery or assisting Gaius in the lower town.

He manages to corner Merlin in his own chambers.

“Sometimes I do wonder, _Mer_ lin, if you know that as _my_ manservant, your obligation is to me first,” Arthur drawls. “You’re a strangely difficult man to pin down.”

“Gaius is still easily tired, Sire,” Merlin replies mildly. “The things he went through when Morgana took him—it would be quite a lot for young men. Let alone for a man of his age. I like to help where I can,” Merlin purses his lips, before tacking on on, “Sire.”

 _You arse,_ Arthur hears. Well. That’s one way to immediately make Arthur feel wrong-footed. “Is there none other who can help him?”

“I’m the best qualified to do it,” Merlin answers, his chin slightly tilted up in pride.

“No doubt you are,” Arthur resists the urge to quirk a sceptical eyebrow, “but I mean for deliveries, and things like that.”

Merlin hesitates.

“You have been using it as an excuse to avoid me,” Arthur accuses.

Merlin scoffs unconvincingly, not meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“You are _still_ upset with me for what happened.”

Merlin straightens at that, stiffening. Arthur has never paid a close enough attention to notice this sort of blankness falling over Merlin’s features like a curtain, hiding his true thoughts. He watches now, transfixed as Merlin’s face transforms under his gaze into something unreadable, as impassive as any experienced noblemen in court. Not a hint of emotion in the straight set of his mouth, nor in the deliberate relaxing in the lines around his eyes.

It’s really quite impressive, if Arthur is being honest.

 _When did this happen?_ Arthur wonders. _He used to wear his emotions on his sleeve_. _Since when is Merlin capable of something like this?_

Arthur seats himself on Merlin’s bed without waiting for an invitation. He nudges Merlin’s shoulder tentatively, not sure if the casual contact would be welcome. Sure enough, Merlin pulls away from him, putting distance between them.

Arthur feels the small, hesitant smile dropping from his face. Cold, all of a sudden. Because that’s new, as well. Merlin has never shied from his touch before.

“Talk to me,” Arthur implores. He can’t lose Merlin, too. Not so soon after his father. Not after Morgana.

“I am under the impression that my opinions are unwelcome, Sire,” Merlin says, mulish. “Considering that I am only a servant and certainly wouldn’t know what I’m on about,”

Arthur very nearly flinches, barely managing to keep still, even if he feels like he’s been punched in the gut, hearing Merlin parroting Arthur's own words back to him. Merlin was never meant to take that to heart. Surely he should know by now that Arthur never meant it when he says things like that in fits of anger? He steels himself, then forces the words out of his teeth; “I was wrong.”

Merlin looks astounded by Arthur’s admission—and really, that’s just insulting. He _is_ capable of admitting when he is wrong when the situation calls for it. It’s just that it’s not very often that he is wrong.

Arthur is again reminded of the gravity of the situation when Merlin’s expected snarky reply doesn’t come. It’s _Merlin_ at stake here, Arthur realises. And Arthur's not willing to give him up.

“And no, it doesn’t hurt to admit that,” Arthur adds on awkwardly when Merlin still refuses to say anything in return. Not so much extending the olive branch as pushing it into Merlin’s stubbornly clenched fists.

Merlin nods, curt. 

Arthur sighs heavily. It is evident that Merlin’s not quite finished, and that some of his anger still lingers. It seems to him a disproportionately strong reaction to one event that has been resolved quite well. Unless, of course, that this is simply a culmination of all the things that had happened in the past. Merlin was always steadfast by his side. He never let Arthur push him away. Arthur can’t help but wonder, now, if he’s managed to truly drive Merlin away.

They may be sat next to each other, but Merlin has never felt so far away. Not to him, anyway. Never to him.

“Tell me,” Arthur wants to order, but it only manages to come out more like a plea. _Don’t let me ruin what we have._ “It is clear to me that you still have something to say. So say it.”

Merlin hesitates for a long while before speaking again, his face still dangerously impassive. “Gaius has always been a loyal servant to you and your family,” says Merlin, “yet one accusation was all that it took for you to cast him aside.”

Arthur shifts uneasily, guilt weighing heavy in his chest.

“You have to admit, it did look a bit suspicious,” Arthur says defensively. “He left the moment he was accused. His belongings were gone, a horse was stolen—“

“He was _taken_ ,” Merlin retorts, enunciating his words slowly, as though speaking to a very thick child.

_But what is the word of a servant compared to that of a lord?_

Arthur swallows.

“Fine, I was wrong to accuse him,” he finally admits.

“You were,” Merlin nods, and Arthur winces from his bluntness. “But doesn’t it leave you wondering who the real traitor is?”

Arthur freezes. Because Merlin is right, isn’t he. Arthur could kick himself—not quite believing that he has simply dropped the matter rather than pursuing it further. A traitor, at the heart of his court—

His throat feels dry, his stomach churning with trepidation when he speaks again, because he knows immediately where this is going. He forces the words out through gritted teeth: “if you have an accusation to make, then make it.”

Merlin stubbornly holds his tongue.

“Merlin—”

“Gaius was set up,” Merlin tells him coldly, his tone matter-of-fact and deceptively mild, but Arthur can hear the steel in his words. “Perhaps the traitor is the person who suggested that it was Gaius in the first place.”

Agravaine _._

“No,” Arthur says simply, suddenly furious. Who does Merlin think he is? “You are forgetting yourself again. I don’t think you understand, Merlin,” Arthur bites out, “he’s the only family I have left. What reason does he have to betray me?”

Merlin simply regards him with a cool look before nodding, sullen again. He bows his head and says, "of course, Sire.”

* * *

In the weeks following their conversation, Merlin grows ever more distant. The cheeky replies that so often lifted his bad mood come less and less frequently, to the point where they hardly talk anymore. He only speaks when addressed, and when the reply comes, none of the usual warmth was there anymore. It’s beginning to feel as though Merlin is there to do his job, and leave when he is done. He’s not there for _Arthur_ anymore _._

Arthur can tell that Merlin is slipping further and further away from him. He can feel it, as keenly as he would a physical sensation—the chasm between them growing ever wider, growing colder with every moment. He feels it when Merlin accepts Arthur’s insults with a rueful nod and none of the barbed retorts, and he feels it again in the silence of his chambers when Merlin is cleaning. He feels it when Merlin comes along for a hunt without complaint and rides behind, the way a proper servant is meant to do.

 _You were the one who put the distance there,_ a little voice in the back of his head reminds him. _You were the one who pushed him away._

Arthur wants nothing more than to cross it, to mend the gap between them. He doesn’t know how—doesn’t know if Merlin will let him.

Except that’s not true, though, is it? He _does_ know how, he just refuses to entertain the notion. Because at the end of the day, it comes to choosing between Merlin and the only blood family he has left. And Arthur has made his choice.

Yet he can’t help but wonder, sometimes, if Merlin misses the way they were as much as he does.

 _I don’t want to lose another friend,_ Arthur said to Merlin once, the day Gaius was taken. Yet he managed to lose Merlin anyway.

He listens numbly as Gwaine and Percival hang behind to talk with Merlin, making him laugh the way Arthur can’t anymore. Watches as they playfully push and shove at Merlin, watches as Merlin _lets_ them and pushes and shoves back. He watches them as they whisper to each other conspiratorially, ruffling Merlin’s hair and teasing him like they would a little brother.

He watches as Merlin smiles _that_ smile—bright and easy and carefree, the toothy grin that makes him look like the guileless country boy he once was. The one that sets something aflutter in his stomach. Arthur hasn’t seen it in what feels like weeks. The realisation settles heavily like a stone in the pit of his stomach; he only hasn’t seen it because it’s not directed at him anymore.

Arthur looks away, swallowing thickly. He has never felt so lonely before. _Kings rule alone,_ he tells himself. _Isn’t that what father used to say? Kings rule alone._

* * *

Merlin disappears with Gwaine _again,_ and despite his initial fury, Arthur would be lying if he said that he wasn’t making himself sick with worry.

When they reemerge three days later, Merlin with dried blood on his temple and limping, but otherwise grinning and alive and lighter than Arthur has seen him in weeks, Arthur accosts them in Gaius’ chambers.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Arthur half-shouts at him. “And what happened to your head?”

“Gathering herbs, Sire,” Merlin answers shortly. “Winter is coming, and there are preparations to be made.”

“For three days?”

“These are very specific herbs, Sire, growing only in a small meadow a day’s ride away from Camelot.”

“And your head?”

He meets Arthur’s gaze and says, through his teeth, “I tripped.”

Arthur catches Gwaine’s knowing look, and gods, _that_ hurt. Because that is a lie, it _has_ to be. Merlin’s not half as good a liar as he seems to think he is. And whatever truly happened in the days he had gone missing, Merlin had seen it fit to not only conceal it from Arthur, but also to trust Gwaine with the knowledge.

 _He doesn’t come to me with his problems anymore,_ Arthur thinks hollowly, dazed. _He comes to_ Gwaine _._ As though Merlin has lost his trust in Arthur. The realisation strikes him like a bolt of lightning, sharp and burning, sending him reeling.

“Oh,” Arthur says softly, stung. He inhales deeply to compose himself, feeling the blank mask he so often wears in court slipping over his face. “Well. Get your head looked at then, god knows you can't afford to lose what precious thinking ability you might have had. And get some rest, because you have an _exceptionally_ full day ahead of you tomorrow.” He turns to face Gwaine, and bites out, "I expect to see you bright and early at training, Sir Gwaine."

He turns to leave, feeling sick.

“You were right,” he hears Gwaine say wryly through the half-closed door, and Arthur can’t tell if he is mocking or just being sarcastic when he continues, “doesn’t sound like he even noticed you were gone.”

* * *

Despite Arthur’s staunch denial, he is forced to admit that perhaps Merlin was on to something. And Merlin _has_ been right on more counts than Arthur would give him credit for.

When all other options are exhausted, Arthur has to confront the fact that perhaps his uncle is not as forthcoming as he once thought. And once Arthur mulls it over, the more starkly oddities begin to stand out. Out of all the people in his innermost circle, Agravaine _is_ the most recent addition. He never bothered showing up before his father’s health started failing, and what messages they received have never been anything but hostile. The traitor is still in their midst, and it came down to a very select few.

In a desperate attempt to root out the traitor once and for all, Arthur had Leon tail Agravaine after all the other leads proved futile. It only took him a week to catch Agravaine red-handed. Before bringing his sword down upon his neck, though, Arthur has to ask.

“Why, Uncle?”

“You killed my sister,” Agravaine spits out. “Your father killed my brother. You foolish child—what makes you think a de Bois would ever want to ally with you ever again? You bring nothing but pain and misery to all who ever stooped so low as to trust you.”

* * *

Merlin hovers that night. It’s the closest to a display of friendship he has shown Arthur in recent memory.

“Came to gloat?” Arthur bites out bitterly.

“I would never do that to you,” replies Merlin calmly, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’m sorry. I know he was family.”

“He was right about something,” Arthur says, resentful. “I _was_ a fool.”

“He betrayed you. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I misjudged everyone,” Arthur continues in a low voice. “My uncle. Morgana. Every decision I’ve made has been wrong.” _And at what cost?_ In defending his family, Arthur has burned bridges with the people he holds most dear, leaving him lost and alone. “You don’t have to stay, Merlin,” Arthur sighs, rubbing his face. “I’m sure you’re needed somewhere else.”

“I’m here as long as you need me.”

Arthur wants to laugh. If only that has been true. But he doesn’t say it, afraid to push Merlin away again when he is finally the one reaching out to Arthur. Instead, he says stiffly, “I’m glad you are.”

* * *

If Arthur thought that he and Merlin would go back to the way that they were after that, he thought wrong.

 _Are things so broken between us?_ Arthur desperately wants to ask. _Have I fucked it so badly?_

In the end, it’s Arthur who breaks first.

They were in his chambers again, Merlin bustling about the place in silence, picking up clothes and other bits and bobs he had deliberately left on the floor to get a rise out of Merlin. Merlin just picks them up without comment. 

He can’t stand it anymore.

“I thought once Agravaine has been apprehended, things would be mended between us,” Arthur says, trying not to let too much of his frustration bleed through to his tone. “But here we are now. Acting like strangers.” Arthur watches Merlin closely, the way he freezes in his step for a moment before resuming what he was doing. “It’s not just about what happened to Gaius, is it,”

Merlin turns to look at him, surprised. As though astonished that Arthur has the emotional capacity required to glean this truth from him.

Then, because Arthur doesn’t know what’s good for him, he adds in a challenging tone, “I must give it to you, Merlin. You do know how to hold a grudge.”

“A grudge?” Merlin repeats, disbelieving. “Is that what you think this is?”

“No, Merlin, I don’t know what this is,” Arthur replies with a defiant tilt of his chin, “because you won’t tell me.”

Merlin purses his lips.

“I have admitted my mistake. You were right about my uncle, so I sentenced him to death.” He takes a deep breath before admitting helplessly, “I don’t know what else you want from me.”

 _Do you remember, Merlin?_ Arthur wants to ask. _Do you remember how we used to be? Do you remember when it was just the two of us and it was easy?_

“Sire, I—“

“And now you won’t even call me by my name,” Arthur interrupts him with a rueful laugh, looking away. He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, feeling as though he’s been flayed open, stripped bare of his pride. It’s shameful, really, but he is beyond the point of shame now. He might as well be throwing himself on Merlin’s feet, grovelling, clutching at the leg of Merlin’s breeches. He looks at Merlin, pleading. _Tell me how to fix this._

“I told you, before,” Merlin reminds him after a moment of heavy silence, “I told you it wasn’t Gaius. You didn't believe me.”

Arthur stares at him, at loss for words, not knowing how to make things right. “Come here, Merlin,”

With slow, uncertain steps, Merlin closes the gap between them until they are close enough to touch. He is looking down, not meeting Arthur’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur finally says. He takes Merlin’s hand in his, his movements so slow and gentle that Merlin has ample time to pull away. He is emboldened when Merlin doesn’t, instead remaining still and letting Arthur hold his hand. “I'm sorry I didn't listen to you.”

“If Gaius, who has served your family since before you were born—who looked away as his own friends contemporaries burned in your father’s purge—“ Merlin’s voice breaks then, and Arthur grasps Merlin’s hand that little bit tighter, “if you accepted the idea that _he_ betrayed you without question, what hope does the rest of us have?”

“Merlin—” Arthur says thickly.

"He gave up everything for your father," Merlin continues as if Arthur hadn't spoken. "For Camelot. Yet you cast him away for someone you barely even knew."

Arthur wonders if they're still talking about Gaius. “You know I would never do that to you.”

“You don’t know that,” Merlin retorts, “you did it to him,”

“And it was a mistake,” Arthur repeats for what feels like the fiftieth time in as many days, resisting the urge to raise his voice in frustration. “And what the hell does that mean, ‘you don’t know that?’”

Silence.

“Whatever it is, Merlin, I promise,” Arthur vows, meaning it with everything that he is, “I will not cast you away. I can’t lose—“ Arthur coughs, clearing his throat. “Well. You know.”

Merlin smiles hesitantly, slipping his fingers between Arthur’s own. It’s the first little smile Arthur has seen directed at him in what feels like centuries.

Perhaps there is hope for them yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes watching Arthur in the show can be so frustrating. I strive to achieve the same effect in my fics.  
> Also, I intended this to be a short one-shot to clear my head and get the plot bunnies out so I can focus on my unfinished series. Oops. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, please let me know what you think xx


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